


Rewind

by Mysenia



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Gore, Elemental Magic, Fate & Destiny, Fire, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Spells & Enchantments, Steter Secret Santa 2019, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:14:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21856639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mysenia/pseuds/Mysenia
Summary: TheWillsformed the world and gave tasks to certain people, called the Movers. Stiles was a Mover determined to ignore his Move.
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 17
Kudos: 213
Collections: Steter Secret Santa 2019





	Rewind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Yoshishisha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yoshishisha/gifts).



> Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays and a Happy New Year to my giftee, [Yoshiscribbles on tumblr](https://yoshiscribbles.tumblr.com/)! I hope you enjoy this, I had a lot of fun writing it! :)
> 
> Beta’d by myself and Grammarly. CW/TW notes at end

A glimpse, that’s all he’s granted. A single moment in time that changes everything. It’s hard to pull back out, to listen to the psychic’s voice drawing him back to the present. He feels his heart pounding, his skull feeling like it’s about to explode from the pain surging through him. Blinking brings no relief, it just allows the outside stimuli to finally make sense, each blink bringing something else into focus. The incense burning to embers on the table, the room flickering in the candlelight, the psychic’s face looking at him.

The old lady grinned, her teeth sharp in her mouth. “Yes, I do believe you saw what you needed to.”

Stiles grit his teeth, trying to think. The smell in the room was crowding in making it hard to think. The wind could be heard rushing outside, attacking the unsuspecting while the tent sheltered Stiles - barely. It felt like at any moment the pegs would be ripped from the ground, pulling the tent out of the ground and taking it far away. 

“Wh-” clearing his throat, he tried again, “why?”

“I think we both know the answer to that, Stiles.”

And he did know, that was the problem. It was a truth he’d been running from for too many years to count. A single moment that rippled through the lives of too many to count, a stain that kept spreading no matter how many people along the way tried to mop it up. It was a blight and he’d been ignoring it because he knew no matter what, he wouldn’t get what he wanted in the end. No, this problem - if he fixed it - would help everyone but him and he was bitter about it.

“There are others-”

“No, you will not continue to run from this, Mieczyslaw. The  _ Wills _ have spoken, they will no longer be ignored. They left you to live the life you wanted and now you have been called,” the psychic’s eyes swirled silver starlight, speaking to the Other that was currently in control.

Stiles scoffed. “What life? The  _ Wills _ destroyed it with the creation of the world. I never had a life. This was planned long before I was stardust.”

“And yet you were permitted to turn away from your path these many years. How long has it been since that moment? You were called and chose to walk away, thinking you knew better and the  _ Wills _ allowed it. Now you have seen just how much your foolish and pathetic rebellion has cost. Life did not have to be this way but the  _ Wills _ chose to show you what your inaction wrought. This is the life that is without your input. You’ve been a bystander, allowing this to happen.”

It hurt to hear, not because it was an attack but that it was nothing less than the truth. He’d been given a task, one that back then had seemed insurmountable and he’d chosen the path of least resistance. What a joke. Stiles knew better now, not that that made it any easier to face looking back. He’d been naive and young, so fucking young, and yet it didn’t change how he felt now. Still like a newborn colt, trying to find its legs, wobbling around and wishing the  _ Wills _ had chosen differently.

He looked at the Other, the blank face, neither judging nor understanding. Just there, as with everything concerning the  _ Wills _ . It wasn’t the Other that felt anything. The Others were just extensions of the  _ Wills _ . And Stiles was a further pawn in the cycle, given the allusion of choice and freedom and yet his life was dictated just like every other being whom the  _ Wills _ called upon.

“The  _ Wills _ decreed it, Mieczyslaw. Your turn in the cycle has now begun. You have until the darkening of the world three days hence to see your task finished.”

And just like that, the Other left the old psychic, leaving her blinking and trying to regain her composure. Though Stiles had never been taken over by an Other he knew from close examination and discussion that it was not a pleasant experience. Hands flat on the table, fingers splayed, the psychic glared at Stiles, as he knew she would the moment she sought him out. She’d been driven by a compulsion to seek him out, her small part in the cycle called into play. She wasn’t happy to have been taken over and as Stiles was the cause, her animosity almost screamed out at him though she remained silent. As much as she might hate that she’d been taken over they both knew better than to actively speak out against the Others or the  _ Wills _ that controlled them. 

“Be gone with you, Mover. Time is a wasting and the sands wait for no one,” the psychic nodded her head toward the exit. With a nod, Stiles pushed back from the table and tried to ignore the weight bearing down on his shoulders. He walked out of the tent and took a moment to simply look around and think.

She’d called him a Mover and she wasn’t wrong. Movers had important roles to play in the fate of the universe. They caused the world to go on as it should, caused it to move unimpeded just as the  _ Wills _ had laid down before time began. It was a Movers job to make sure something specific happened at a specific time to make the cycle of life do just that, move. 

If a Mover chose to ignore their call, life fragmented, became distorted and tainted. It mattered not the size of the move, the results were always the same. Death, destruction, chaos — unimaginable horrors inflicted on the world because the puzzle of life was missing a piece and a vacuum formed, pulling the line between life and death so thin that passage was possible between the two realms. The passage between the realms was one way for a reason, for death changed the soul in ways that a living being could never comprehend.

As Stiles had been ignoring his Move for almost twenty years the horrors he had witnessed, the ripples he’d had to take care of, were getting worse and worse. The world was dying, the very air like ash as the chemistry changed, making everything uninhabitable. The ground no longer sustained life, making it almost impossible to grow things and animals were fading away. Life itself was fading away. All because of Stiles.

Spotting Isaac standing under an adjacent tent, Stiles made his way over to his friend. As always, Isaac looked gaunt, hollows under his eyes and bones sticking out prominently even under his clothes. It hurt Stiles’s heart to see his friend looking so sick but Isaac always argued that the path he chose, to stay by Stiles’s side despite Stiles ignoring the  _ Wills _ , was his alone and there was to be no guilt. Though not called to be a Mover himself, Isaac was just as culpable in the eyes of the  _ Wills _ for the help he’d given Stiles and they’d forced him to live, forever starving, bruised and haunted, never granting the peace of death.

If not for that punishment, Isaac would have been taken from Stiles just like everyone else. Looking at him, it was hard to remember why the alternative was so bad.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Isaac snapped. “Don’t forget why we did what we did.”

Laughter choked his throat, making breathing next to impossible. “Yeah, I remember but fuck it matters anymore.”

Isaac’s eyes flared, understanding slipping in. “You’ve been called.”

Stiles nodded, eyes tearing up as he’d never allowed them in all the years since that fateful night. “My Move has been called into play. I have until the sun sets in three days to complete the task.”

“Three days?! That’s not enough time.”

“You know it is. The  _ Wills _ would never call into play a Move that didn’t have a chance of being accomplished. Three days isn’t a lot of time but we both know it’ll be enough to see this done.”

Isaac nodded, falling into step beside Stiles as he moved down the alley of tents. This fair had been relatively small, people trying to peddle their measly wares to those who had even less ability to buy anything. Currency nowadays was in the trade of services for goods but people were so tired and drawn, slowly fading away like everything else, that few had any services they were able to trade.

Stiles hated it but hated more that he was the cause of it. All because he couldn’t bear to watch kill the other half of his soul. All for love. And in the end, it didn’t matter as the  _ Wills _ were tired of him and he knew the penalty this time would be too great. 

“You’ll need a day to set up the ritual, we still have everything you should need in our cave,” Isaac said, pulling Stiles’s attention back to the present. “Will you be able to handle seeing him again?”

Stiles appreciated Isaac and how, even now, after everything Stiles had forced them to face, he was still willing to allow Stiles the simple act of keeping his soulmate’s name to himself. “Doesn’t matter if I can, I’ll have to. And we both know that I won’t be seeing Peter for long before I’m forced to Move and damn him to the fate the  _ Wills _ have in store for him.”

Just saying his name, Peter, still managed to stab Stiles through the heart. The gaping wound of his loss had never healed and Stiles cursed the  _ Wills _ for ever deciding that it had to be the two of them chosen to play this part. They’d been happy, at least for a short period of time, before.

Before Stiles’s Move was called into play and he was forced in between a rock and a hard place. There had been no choice, at least not then. Stiles had been untried, sheltered by Peter and young at heart in a way his soulmate had treasured beyond measure. Then he woke one morning and knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the  _ Wills _ wanted Peter dead, wanted his soulmate dead by Stiles’s own hand. And he hadn’t been able to do it.

He had loved Peter beyond anything in the world. Peter was his sole reason for living and the thought of killing him had made Stiles physically ill. So, he hadn’t. He’d left Peter to live, ignore the tugging in his gut that burned like a blazing fire. And he’d watched as the man he loved was turned into a monster beyond recognition. How the pack’s betrayal had taken the strong, fun-loving werewolf and turned him into something so grotesque as to barely be recognizable as a werewolf even less a man.

That hadn’t been all. Peter probably could have survived the betrayal but somehow his mind had become twisted and he’d viewed Stiles as a betrayer as well — had decided that Stiles had betrayed him by not stopping his rampage even though stopping Peter would have meant Stiles was forced to kill him. He just couldn’t do it. It had all escalated until their soulbond had fractured beyond fixing and left one demonized hulking monster and one broken Mover.

It had stayed like that these last 17 years, Stiles forced to flee from town to town as Peter tracked him, looking to kill him. Peter saw Stiles as the cause for what he had become, not blaming the  _ Wills _ . His purpose in life had become chaos and destruction, destroying anything in his path to Stiles. And maybe Peter was right in his hatred, Stiles had ignored his Move after all, but Stiles would never blame anything but the  _ Wills _ .

Now it had all come to a head and the  _ Wills _ were forcing Stiles to go back, to travel to the time his Move came into play to finally see it done. Just like back then, Stiles wasn’t sure he’d be able to get the job done because living in a world where Peter was a monster was better than living in a world where he no longer lived.

“You know I’ll be there, right? Every step of the way, just like we’ve been doing since this all started. While I cannot make your Move for you, I’ll have your back.” Isaac knocked his shoulder into Stiles’s, forcing Stiles to look at him and acknowledge him. “You’re my family and I love you.”

“Yeah, I love you too,” Stiles managed to say, throat tight. So many emotions were swirling through him and he found he was having a harder time dealing with them than usual. “Not sure either of us will remember this once we’re back there, you know?”

Isaac nodded. This wasn’t the first time travel had slipped into their radar. The Others had been warning Stiles since the moment he defied the  _ Wills _ that they would bring him back, force him to do what they wanted heedless of how he felt. So he and Isaac had looked into it, seeing what they would need and trying to prepare for what might happen. It was inevitable, the  _ Wills _ would always have their way. 

“Regardless, for right now you know and that’s what matters.”

Stiles finally managed a smile and swung an arm up over Isaac’s shoulder, giving him a quick squeeze before dropping his arm. They continued to make their way through passed the tents, heading towards the edge of town. It was quiet, as all towns were. No chatter of children, no birds chirping in the trees, no scurrying of anything. Life had ceased for Stiles 17 years ago and slowly but surely the world around him started to reflect that. His only bright spot being Isaac.

Even leaving the town and traveling further into the forest, it was apparent that nothing thrived. Trees were bare, the bark on the trees turning as rot infected the wood. No animals burrowed in their limbs, no critters jumped from branch to branch, everything was still. Quiet. 

Too quiet. 

Stiles paused, looking around. “Something’s wrong,” he murmured to Isaac. Though he was a spark, as all the greater Movers were, Stiles’s magic was good for one thing only, his Move. Which meant he was a sitting duck for anything that could potentially come at him. Isaac was equally as vulnerable, a werewolf unable to reach his powers since the  _ Wills _ blocked them from him.

Stiles strained his ears, trying to hear beyond the wind whipping through the tree limbs, whistling an eery rhythm. He stepped carefully, trying to avoid the dried out underbrush littering the forest floor. Isaac was equally quiet, both their eyes searching for anything out of place.

A shadow fell just off to the right drawing their attention. Looking over they were presented with the last sight they wanted to see, a werewolf stalking them. It was small but definitely enough to be a problem.

“You know if there’s one it means the rest aren’t far behind,” Stiles whispered to Isaac, keeping his gaze on the werewolf. Isaac nodded, turning around to keep on eye on their backs.

They weren’t far from their cave but they didn’t want to lead the werewolves there. It held all of their supplies and if Stiles was to complete his Move he needed everything they had. He didn’t have time to search it all out again as he’d started looking for them the moment he found the ritual for the time travel — and that had started years ago. While they did everything they could to cover their trail at the cave, to make sure that nothing identified them, using noxious smelling plants — naturally found in the area, few though there were — to cover up their smells.

“You know he’s not far behind if that one is here. You need to make it out, you have your Move. I can-”

Stiles cut Isaac off. “No, I won’t let you sacrifice yourself,” Stiles hissed, furious that they were even in this situation. It felt like just yesterday they’d arrived in the area and already Peter and his pack had tracked them down.

“I was never going with you anyway, Stiles. We both know it, just because you haven’t accepted it yet doesn’t mean it isn’t fact. Only one person can travel and you’re the Mover. If you don’t go I fear to think what more could happen to this world,” Isaac said, reasonable as ever. It made Stiles want to rip his hair out.

Why? Why did this have to happen to them? Oh, he knew, but that didn’t make it any easier to swallow. He’d lost Peter 17 years ago and now he was going to lose Isaac. Going back would make him lose Peter all over again, permanently this time. Isaac would be there but different, not the one who’d gone through everything with him and who knew him better than he knew himself.

Stiles let the tears fall as they came, letting go of the future, of Isaac and of any past that might become something. This was it for him, his one final task before he’d be able to join Peter in the beyond.

“I will never forget you,” Stiles said, grabbing Isaac’s hand and giving it a tight squeeze. They didn’t have time for hugs, for long farewells. Isaac squeezed his hand back with tears in his eyes as well before circling around Stiles to growl at the werewolf. Though no longer able to access his powers, Isaac still smelled of werewolf and his eyes were still the bright blue of a beta. The werewolf growled back, now solely focused on Isaac.

Stepping back, eyes still tracking around him to make sure that no other werewolves were around, Stiles slowly left the area. Isaac faced off against the werewolf looking like nothing so much as prey. It physically hurt Stiles to turn his back on the only person in the world who meant anything to him but he had to. Knowing Isaac likely wouldn’t survive the encounter if things got physical, Stiles stopped, hesitating.

His stomach cramping, Stiles barely stopped himself from hunching over to curl up around the pain. Too many memories swirled around him, reminding Stiles of instances just like this from long before. Always leaving his loved ones behind, knowing they were dying or dead because of him. He didn’t know how much more he could take.

Yet he knew that at least one more death would be on his conscience. The  _ Wills _ had decreed it so.

With a heavy heart, Stiles escaped from the forest and to the mountains, doubling back in areas so that if he was tracked there would be confusion. The air became cooler near the mountain, the large mountain providing the only shade for miles around. It was a small delight in the deluge of horrendous things happening around him. Distant howls rang through the air causing goosebumps to grow along his arms and a shiver to crawl up his spine. 

With barely enough hours to finish the ritual, Stiles hurried to their cave, lonely as he hadn’t ever been in his life. Dismantling the traps they’d set before they left, Stiles entered the cave and reassembled the traps. Pausing just inside the cave he took a moment to wish, selfishly, that Isaac would remember him in the past, remember this future and all they’d gone through together. He needed the reassurance that at least one thing would remain the same, that his brother in all but blood would still look at him with an understanding that no one else would get and a love born from blood, tears, and loss.

Walking into the back of the cave, Stiles light the fire near the back. There was a natural opening at the top of the cavern that allowed the smoke to safely leave the cave and the pit was located around a corner to hide the light from the outside. 

Even so far in the cave, the wind could be heard whistling around. The flames from the small fire drifted, drafts allowing air to pass through and disrupt the flame. Shadows danced along the walls, casting imaginary monsters that kept Stiles tense. Without Isaac around to keep him steady, he felt like a child told that ghosts were real and left with his imagination to turn them real. Except the ghosts were more than real, they were werewolves hunting him down, his execution already planned in their minds. 

Taking a deep breath in and blowing it out took a few tries but once the rhythm came Stiles managed to force his breathing down to calm himself. He needed to settle his mind in order to perform the ritual correctly and set each stage in motion. First, he needed to cleanse the cavern floor just wide enough for him to draw the pentagram.

It took an hour, brushing and washing away each speck of dirt. Time travel was not something to be messed with and from what Stiles and Isaac had read, so much could go wrong if each step wasn’t meticulously followed. Once the floor was clean he grabbed the knife that would be used for the ritual. Though only a drop was needed, Stiles knew he would need to sterilize it now as his power would be next to none once every other step was performed.

The fire sparked and jumped as he held the knife in the flames, twisting and turning the knife so no part of it was left untouched. Stiles then set it aside on a blanket that Isaac had washed just the other day. They both had felt that the time was coming for the Move and while it was sooner than they wanted, it was happening. 

He spent the next hour sharpening the knife on a whetstone. Stiles wanted it to be as sharp as possible so the blood came quickly without him having to dig in deep. It needed to come quick and clean, nothing contaminating the sacrifice.

Next came the cleansing. Stiles had to strip completely and bathe, scrubbing away at his skin until it was red and raw. He had to enter the pentagram as vulnerable as a newborn, bare and open to accept whatever came his way. For the ritual to work he needed to come unassuming and present himself to the  _ Wills _ , hoping they granted his request. For while they wanted him to complete his Move they would make him pay each step of the way for defying them in the first place. 

So much could go wrong in the between, he could be dumped out a lot further away than he wanted or even too close to accomplish his Move cleanly. 

Over the new handful of hours, Stiles completed each step as dictated from the information they had gleaned over the years. He took medication to force his body to expel all that was in it. Gathered offerings to the Wills, from the Air, Earth, Fire, and Water, his spark granting him just enough magic to stabilize each form in a point of the pentagram. 

The final point was to symbolize the soul, showing Stiles’s willingness to give of himself completely to see the ritual through and please the  _ Wills _ . This part required the drawing of his blood from his soulmark, the visible presence of his soul for all to see. It hurt to draw the blade across his mark, the swirling lines forming a circle on his inner left wrist. The blood welled quickly and Stiles turned his wrist over the soul point. The pain came a second later, a burning line pulsing forcefully with every beat of his heart.

With all the steps complete it was time to meditate in the center, asking the  _ Wills _ to grant permission for Stiles to cross the beyond and travel back in time. He cleared his mind of all stimuli and thoughts, focusing on his concentration on the point in time he wanted to go back to. 

The night of the fire.

The fire that had killed most of the Hales. When Derek Hale, Peter’s youngest nephew, had inadvertently told a hunter named Kate Argent all the secrets of the werewolves and condemned them to death by fire. Betrayal tasted like bitter ash on his tongue even now. For not only did Kate Argent doup a young teenager through rape and manipulation but Alan Deaton had known it was going to happen and had done nothing to stop it.

Killing Deaton hadn’t brought back the Hales but it had felt damned good. That was one death, along with Kate Argent’s, that Stiles had no regret over. As the Emissary of the Hale pack, it was Deaton’s job to protect them. Stiles planned to deal with the man once he was back but that wasn’t here and now.

Now he had to focus on the night of the fire. His Move happened the night the fire after the house had been consumed. His attention focused on what he’d been doing that day, everything etched into his mind like it had happened just yesterday. 

He’d been making his way to the Hale house after work, where he and Peter lived. They’d made plans to build a house on Hale land away from the main house but still near the pack. Except on his way to the house his dad had called, reminding Stiles that he’d promised to go over for dinner. 

Stiles had gone over with a laugh, calling Peter on the way to let him know. Peter had been understanding though he hadn’t been able to join them as he was helping Joseph, Peter’s brother-in-law, and Derek’s dad, with finishing the new roof. It had been mid-way through dinner when Stiles felt the  _ Wills _ calling him, his Move in the cycle coming into play. It had taken him by surprise, unknowing at that time that he was a Mover — though Peter had always suspected something. He’d been out of his seat and on the way to the Hale house before he even realised what was happening, his dad ringing his phone incessantly. 

The smoke could be seen from way back and Stiles’s had felt his heart stop in his chest. He’d pulled up in front of the house after driving down the long driveway to come upon a horror story come to life. All the wolves howling and human crying coming from the house, the fire blaze so loud Stiles could barely hear the cries for help as he opened his door and went running.

He tripped and landed in front of the house, his eyes drawn to a weird line along the perimeter of the house that seemed to stop the fire from moving elsewhere — mountain ash. His fury had blazed as ferociously as the fire as he’d broken the line and the magic holding everything in. The front door broke open as some of the wolves poured out, carrying other wolves and humans with them. The bodies had been burned, scorches in their clothes and in their skin, black from head to toe in ash, coughing horribly from the smoke. 

Crying came from the back, something that sounded like Peter’s voice and Stiles went running. There was a small window along the side of the house and Stiles could see Peter struggling to get out, his hands bloody from punching out the window, covered in smoke and burned horribly all over. Stiles had reached for Peter and the Move had hit him like a punch to the gut.

He’d known at that moment that he needed to kill Peter, had felt his hands pulsing with the need to put his hands over Peter’s heart and push. And he’d rebelled, thrown himself back as his heart pounded in fear. Long minutes passed with Peter yelling at him before Stiles came back to himself and managed to help Peter pull the others out of the basement. The compulsion still hammered at him but it was nowhere near as strong and Stiles had ignored it as he’d continued to help save as many of the Hales as possible.

Many hadn’t made it that night and those that were left had been burned almost past the point of healing. It had been agonizing having to go on and hear about what had happened to Derek and know he’d been vulnerable and no one had known. To know that the fire could have been prevented; to realise that he was a Mover and his Move wasn’t to save the Hales but to kill the one person who was the other half of his soul.

Burning agony seized his body suddenly and Stiles couldn’t tell if it was the sense memory of the fire, burning so hotly or something else. He couldn’t open his eyes and his body felt like it was being compressed in a trash compactor. He tried to breathe and couldn’t, gasping as he tried to fill his lungs with air. His ears pinged, popping from the pressure. He knew his mouth was open and he was trying to yell but all he could hear was the ringing in his ears. Everything was black and the burning was getting worse.

It was becoming too much when it all stopped. Everything ringing still in the silence. Stiles found himself seated abruptly in his jeep, the old thing blue and falling apart around him, yet smelling of home and comfort. The jeep was stopped, looking around showed he was in his work parking lot. Work from 17 years before and Stiles had to sit back and tilt his head, looking up at the ceiling. He almost couldn’t believe it had worked though he figured the  _ Wills _ would make it so.

He knew what he had to do next, make sure everything followed the timeline of before. He had to start driving to the Hale house and reroute to his dad’s place. It almost didn’t bear thinking, getting to see his dad after all this time. It had been nearly 14 years since he’d last seen his old man, his dad dying of a werewolf attack after everything had gone to shit.

Chest tight, Stiles blinked back tears as he turned the keys in the ignition and put the jeep into gear. He left the parking lot and steered the jeep towards the Hales, anticipating the phone call. He yearned to hear his dad’s voice, crying preemptively, knowing that he would have an extremely hard time facing his dad and not giving anything away. Before he’d died before, Stiles’s dad had known he was a Mover. Stiles had felt the need to explain why everything suddenly seemed like it was going to shit, even though his dad was purely human and had no notion of Movers or  _ Wills _ , Others or anything else supernatural.

The phone rang and Stiles shakily answered, gasping as his dad’s voice washed over him. It was like a piece of him had finally come home, settling into place like a warm embrace. The conversation happened and the phone was hung up without Stiles really being aware of what they talked about, too busy listening to the nuances and gruffness of his dad’s voice. If he could hug a sound he would hug his dad’s voice but instead, he made up for it by hugging his dad tight when he walked into his old house. The old man smelled like leather and gun oil, with a hint of sweat and just the smell of home. It was perfection and Stiles couldn’t help the tears that poured out of him.

“You alright?” His dad asked, concerned.

Stiles cleared his throat. “Yeah, just, you know, happy to see you. You look good.”

His dad gave him a funny look and laughed, pulling Stiles in for another hug. So many things were different; Stiles was young again but felt ancient and his dad’s hugs still felt the same. If only it could all stay this way, with everyone alive and well.

It was a dream though and dreams had no place in the life of a Mover, Stiles had learned that long ago.

He stepped back from his dad and walked further into the house, eyes roving over everything. Though his memory had forgotten some things, most of it was as he remembered. The pictures in the same place, the recliner worn in the same spot, the ticking clock in the hallway.

The smell coming from the kitchen brought to Stiles one important thing he’d misremembered. They hadn’t had pizza the night everything changed but his dad’s homemade lasagna. It smelled spicy and had the acidic tang of tomatoe sauce, melted cheese and overall the comforting smell of home.

The night passed in a blur, Stiles taking as much time to soak up this time with his dad as he could. He knew, just like before, nothing would be the same after this night. He’d be killing his soulmate and likely fracturing his own soul. But this would never change, his dad’s house always being a second home, with warm hugs and good food. He could count on his dad even if he never saw him again.

The buzzing of the Move pulsed through him as the night wore on. Until he knew and was up, taking the time to give his dad a hug, lingering in the embrace. He whispered ‘love you’ into his dad’s ear as he left the house.

The ride to the Hale house seemed slow as molasses. The seconds ticked by slowly, each bump jarring him roughly, every light turning red. It’s like his resolve to finally make his Move made him hyperfocus. 

When the first glimpse of smoke caught his eye it seemed like an interminable time later. He car trudged along the road until the Hales’s driveway came into view. He turned onto it and drove down the road, watching as the fire came into view and the pain of watching the house burn hit him again, just as it did those many years ago. Even knowing what was going to happen did not make it any easier to see.

Stiles managed to stop the car, his heart pounding and sweat building on his palms. He didn’t want to do this. The resolve to make his Move had never gained any strength, knowing the end result.

He fell out of the car, his legs heavy as he walked up to the house. He didn’t fall this time, managed to walk straight up to the mountain ash line and break it. The door broke open just as it had before, Joseph Hale stumbling out with many others right behind him. Maybe it was just Stiles’s imagination but none of them seemed as burned like last time, perhaps his memories having made everything darker.

He didn’t wait to hear the cries from the side but made his way along the side of the house, the blaze of the fire singing his eyebrows it burned so hotly. He saw the window splintered against the ground, Peter’s bloody arm pushing through as he pulled himself out.

Stiles stopped then, unable to move towards his soulmate. He wanted to soak in the moment, as horrible as it was with Peter’s face burned all over, ash stuck to his hair and blood everywhere. The Move flared up, forcing him forward to Peter.

The moment had come.

Stiles’s hands trembled as he reached out, the tears back full force. Peter’s eyes met his, those beautiful ocean blue eyes. Stiles wanted to drown in them, wanted to fall into Peter and never separate. Every fiber of his being hurt and he fell to his knees, hearing them crack against the ground. He could no longer feel anything beyond the beating of his heart in his ears, his eyes pulsing, as he reached out and pressed his hands to Peter’s chest.

A sound like a gunshot hit Stiles’s ears a millisecond before he was blown backward. The vacuum of an explosion hit sucking everything in, the fire blowing out. Stiles hit his head as he fell back, everything freezing before rushing back in. He rolled to his side and watched as Peter rose to his feet, continuing to haul people out of the basement window.

Stiles couldn’t believe it, Peter was alive.  _ He was alive _ . Stiles felt like the foundation of all his beliefs was crumbling around him. He’d been so sure that Peter was to die and yet, there he was, alive and mostly well.

Frozen in place, unable to move, Stiles uselessly gaped at Peter. At the wolves coming out of the basement, looking for the most part unharmed. What was happening?

“-iles?”

Stiles blinked as his head was raised to looking into familiar blue eyes. The sound wasn’t coming. Stiles could see Peter’s mouth moving, blinked to try to bring everything else into focus but nothing was working. His ears popped.

“Stiles,” Peter said, voice firm. “Look at me, baby.”

“Peter?”

“Yeah, baby, it’s me. I’m alright. Are you okay?” Peter asked, concern radiating from him. “Did you hit your head?”

“But you’re— I thought you were going to die.”

“You know I’m more resilient than that. A little fire would never bring me down, at least not for long,” he winked

Stiles laughed, voice going high. “But the Move… it said… I felt you were going to die.”

While everyone else rushed around them, werewolves and humans of the pack checking to make sure everyone was okay, it was as if the world faded away and only Stiles and Peter existed. Peter crouched down in front of Stiles, assessing him with both his eyes and hands. Gently, softly, those strong hands ran along Stiles’s head, neck, down his arms and palpated his stomach, further along to his legs, always careful and eyes gaging every reaction.

“The Move.” Peter hummed, understanding flashing in his eyes even as disapproval radiated from him. “You know as well as I do that Movers never know the outcome of their Move. You could not have known or felt what was to happen. The  _ Wills _ make sure of it, otherwise, no Mover would ever make their Move.”

Stiles’s laughter sputtered out ending on a wheeze. “Yeah, well, I ignored it the first time because I felt to my core that you were going to die.”

Peter moved and sat beside Stiles, pulling Stiles firmly against him despite the pain they were both feeling. ‘Oh, my moon, you are a stubborn thing aren’t you. You look as if you’ve seen things that no one should ever see. I can only say I am sorry I was not there to help you through it. I assume the  _ Wills _ punished you for your disobedience?”

Snorting, Stiles burrowed his face into Peter’s neck, breathing through the ash and burnt flesh smell to the one that was uniquely Peter — the smell that settled him in a way that nothing else had ever been able to replicate. “Yeah, they punished me alright. But that’s for later. Right now I just want you to hold me, it’s been way too long.”

That’s where they stayed, cuddled close, as the aftermath of the chaos went on around them. At least until a pack member nearly tripped over them in their excitement to sit down with them, Isaac cuddling close on Stiles’s other side.

Isaac looked at Stiles with a smile, pain in his eyes and tears on his cheeks. “I remember.”

The world seemed to right itself at that moment, making Stiles remember the fables of old. That if one presumed to understand the way of the  _ Wills _ those ones were, in fact, the last ones to figure out what was going on.

**Author's Note:**

> CW/TW: Stiles cuts himself, specifically one of his wrists, to complete a ritual, using the blood the finish off the pentagram that will help him time travel.
> 
> Let me know what you think.
> 
> ~ M


End file.
